


Expressive Force

by Avaaricious



Series: Meet-Ugly [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bucky swears a lot, F/M, First Meetings, M/M, The opposite of meet-cute, Tumblr Prompt, should there be a blood warning?, there's a bit of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3467117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avaaricious/pseuds/Avaaricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AKA the "You punched me in the face while gesticulating wildly to a friend" AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expressive Force

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of Meet-cutes, based on a Tumblr post listing some truly cringe-worthy Meet-uglies. Oh yes. 
> 
> There's going to be more of these. The list is pretty epic. If you like this, damn but I'd love to hear from you. 
> 
> So many thanks to Kelly and Sarah for looking over this. You guys are my heroes.

The party is loud, just the way Bucky likes them. Thudding music, the press of bodies, both known and unknown, and plentiful alcohol.

 

And not necessarily in that order.

 

Of course, the loudness means he has to yell to his best friend Natasha, even though she is standing barely a foot away from him, and the closeness of everyone around jostles him from time to time. And of course the alcohol is definitely starting to go to his head.

 

But they are all just details. They can be good or bad, depending on whether you are a 'glass half full' or 'half empty' type of person.

 

Normally, Bucky teeters more towards the 'half empty' way of thinking, but the few drinks he's had before heading out, as well as the shots thrust upon him at the actual party are putting him in a decidedly Zen kind of mood.

 

Zen is good. After a shitty week at work, Zen is James Buchanan 'Fuck Everything Until Monday Morning At The Absolute Latest' Barnes, and that is _very_ good.

 

So Bucky is enjoying himself, and his friend's enjoyment seems to stem from Bucky getting more outlandish as he loosens up. By the time Clint arrives, he is most definitely the butt of both their jokes.

 

"I feel like I need to clip your wings," Clint yells. "You're flapping about so much, you might just take off."

 

Natasha's very unladylike snort can barely be heard amidst the music, but Bucky knows she does it anyway.

 

"For your information, Bird Brain," Bucky begins, pointing at Clint with the hand that holds a plastic cup of beer. It sloshes over the rim, splashing over Natasha's shoes. She isn't impressed, but Bucky's had just enough that her withering look doesn't fill him with the cold, ball-shrivelling dread it normally would. It's the Zen. And probably the beer. "I don't flap. I am a passionate man, and feel the need to express myself. My gestures aren't too big."

 

He accentuates the point by spreading his arms wide, bumping the woman on his left, and nearly spilling the remainder of his beer on the man to his right.

 

Natasha rolls her eyes, and Clint looks unconvinced, but nothing can bring Bucky down, he is in too good of a mood.

 

His friends give each other a very pregnant look; he hates when they do the communication-without-words thing. Clint quirks an eyebrow at Natasha, Natasha's eyelashes flutter down almost coquettishly, and those two fuckers are _up to something._

 

"So, James, Clint forgot the story about how the seagull nearly stole your wallet at Coney Island..." Natasha begins, and Bucky immediately forgets his apprehension because he _loves telling this story._

 

But first, he gives Clint a scandalised look. "How could you forget this story? It has everything! Drama! Action! Revenge! Shirtless me!"

 

"You'll just have to refresh my memory," Clint says, his deadpan tone apparent even if most of his words are lost under the music.

 

Bucky runs a hand through is hair, draining the last of his beer and thrusting the empty cup into Clint's hand, who rolls his eyes but takes the cup anyway. After all, he needs two hands for this story. Bucky begins his Summer tale of shirtlessness and swimming and seagulls -- the pigeons of the beach -- with fervour.

 

The people around are encroaching on his space, and while Clint's face is completely blank, Natasha has a little smile and he _knows_ she's mocking him, but he doesn't care because this is a _brilliant_ fucking story, and it gets bigger and better every time he tells it. For realism, he nearly wants to take his shirts off, but the crush of people close by make it a little hard to get _too_ accurate.

 

Bucky's got this story down to a fine art now. His words follow a particular cadence -- even though he has to yell them -- and hands gesture the same larger-than-life actions each time. It's a party-pleaser and always gets a laugh, no matter how many times his audience has heard it.

 

He's just up to the part in the story where the dirty, filthy little rodent-with-wings has swooped down and stolen the wallet out of his hands, and unthinking of his own safety, has launched himself bodily into the air, both arms outstretched to try and catch it, when it all goes wrong.

 

The tall, blond guy who's been behind Natasha with his back to Bucky for a good ten minutes has abruptly decided to turn around and head towards the kitchen. This wouldn't be a problem, save for the fact that Bucky is in the midst of demonstrating his leap, both fists closed, arms straight and outstretched.

 

And he punches the guy square in the face. Both fists.

 

His victim's head snaps back in a slightly sickening fashion. Bucky is so stunned he can't even lower his arms, while Clint and Natasha both flinch and go 'oh!', cringing away.

 

The guy brings both hands to his nose, eyes wide and impossibly blue. "Fuck!" he says, his voice muffled. "What the hell's your problem, buddy?"

 

This shakes Bucky out of his stupor, and he immediately moves forward to grip him by his firm shoulder. "Oh man, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to do that! Are you okay?"

 

There is a pause where the guy looks at him with the most expressively incredulous eyebrows. "Of _course_ not, you just punched me in the fucking nose!" he protests, still covering his face.

 

Bucky knows he's done the wrong thing, but the sourness of the man's tone makes him a little defensive. He's about to snap back in an indignant tone that it was an accident, when his best friend steps in, putting a hand on his shoulder.

 

"James didn't mean to," Natasha sticks up for him, searching the guy's face for any indication as to how bad the injury is. "He was just telling a story about a seagull--"

 

"With his fists," Clint puts in helpfully, and Natasha elbows him in the solar plexus.

 

The guy's brows are drawn together, either angrily or in pain, Bucky can't tell. While he's worried as to how much damage he's inflicted, he's also slightly worried about how much damage might be inflicted upon _him._ The guy is built like a brick shit-house. Wide shoulders, big arms... the blue sweater he's wearing looks a size too small because it clings to his chest, drops of blood on its surface--

 

Wait. Drops of blood?

 

Bucky's eyes go back to his face, where he can see a steady drip of red coming from beneath the hand, running down his chin, presumably.

 

"Oh, shit. Oh fuck, you're bleeding," Bucky babbles. "You need to sit down."

 

The guy's frown deepens and he shakes his head, but the movement shakes a few more drops of blood loose, and he hisses in pain.

 

Bucky looks at his face searchingly. "Can you take your hands away? Let's see how bad it is." Talking as though he's trying to soothe a wild animal, Bucky very tentatively puts his fingers on the inside of the man's wrists and applies a tiny bit of pressure, to initially no avail.

 

The blond's slightly watery eyes lock with Bucky's, and Bucky isn't sure he's even going to cooperate, until the two large -- and now bloody -- hands allow themselves to be pulled gently away from his face.

 

Three gasps greet him, and Clint actually gags for a moment.

 

"Maybe... I need to sit," he says, a little of the ire from earlier seeping out of his tone.

 

"Dude, no. You need an emergency room," Clint says, successfully keeping his beer down.

 

Bucky feels a little sick himself, but it's mostly out of guilt. The blond guy's nose was probably pretty good _before_ Bucky got to it, but now it's swollen, spattered, and starting to turn purple. There are twin streams of red running down from his nostrils, over his lips and chin, still dripping onto that really nice sweater.

 

Despite being buzzed, Bucky finally gets his head together. In the absence of any paper or tissue, he strips off the thin, pale green button-down shirt he's wearing over his white Henley, and bunches it up a little. Tipping the guy's head back, Bucky very gently plugs his nose. The stranger flinches a little, but Bucky gives him an encouraging smile. Blue eyes look at him warily, but he doesn't protest.

 

"Tash, help me guide him out of here. Clint, can you clear us a path?"

 

Clint flicks a lazy salute, and begins using his outside voice to encourage the writhing, partying masses out of their way.

 

"So, what's your name?" Bucky asks when they're almost out the door and he can hear himself think again.

 

"Steve," the guy mutters, hissing as Bucky accidentally pinches his nostrils together.

 

"Sorry," Bucky apologises, wondering what else he can do to inadvertently hurt this stranger. "By way of introductions, so you know we're not kidnapping axe murderers, I'm James. James Buchanan 'So Clumsy I Could Stand In For Maxwell Smart' Barnes."

 

Steve snorts what is possibly a laugh, then definitely gives a high-pitched, painful whine. Natasha's opened the door, and they spill out into the front yard. Bucky continues the introductions. "The cute redhead guiding your way is Natasha, and the deadpan one is--"

 

"Getting the car," Clint finishes, shaking his keys and taking off down the street in a jog.

 

"--Clint," Bucky finishes with a smile.

 

Now they're outside and it's quieter, Bucky feels a little awkward. And cold. There's a little bite in the air and Bucky's shirt is currently half up Steve's nose.

 

"Were you at the party with anyone, Steve?" Bucky asks. "Do we need to let anyone know where you're going?"

 

"No," Steve snuffles out, shifting from foot to foot. "Was there alone."

 

"Okay. Okay..." Bucky chews on his lip. "Did you drive in?"

 

"Yeah," Steve says, gesturing vaguely with his left hand. It swipes in front of Natasha's face and she rears back with a frown.

 

"Hey," she says.

 

Steve's eyes flick down at her, and he stops flailing. "Sorry," he says, words sounding more and more like he has a bad cold.

 

Natasha smirks. "Looks like you're not the only one that has a problem with wild gesticulating, James."

 

Bucky opens his mouth to answer rudely, but Clint's Ford P.O.S. pulls up, Clint hanging obnoxiously out of the window.

 

"All aboard! Cute girlfriends ride shotgun. Idiots with no spacial awareness and their hapless victims, back seat."

 

Natasha preens, and Bucky would flip Clint off, but his hands are occupied.

 

Bucky and Natasha manoeuvre Steve into the back seat. Relinquishing his shirt to Steve to hold against his face for a moment, Bucky does the seatbelt around Steve's hips, before going back for his shirt.

 

"I can do it," Steve says, and Bucky shakes his head.

 

"Uh-uh. You're not doing so hot." He gently pushes Steve's head back so it's tilting up again, and holds the shirt to his nose more securely.

 

"Hold on, kids," Clint says, and peels away from the curb.

 

Bucky fumbles with the middle seatbelt one-handed, before giving up and bracing his feet against both front seats.

 

"You should put your belt on," Steve suggests, watching him through slitted eyes because of the weird angle his head's on.

 

"Lost cause, Steve," Natasha pipes up from the front seat, "James is a born rule-breaker."

 

"And it won't be a problem as long as Clint doesn't get pulled over for his fucking driving," Bucky says charmingly, kicking the back of Clint's chair. "Slow down, asshole."

 

Clint gives Bucky a glare from the rear-view mirror. "No feet on the upholstery, dipshit."

 

They trade insults the rest of the way to the emergency room, Bucky slightly gratified each time a particularly witty retort gets a snort of a laugh from Steve -- although it's usually followed by an exclamation of pain.

 

It takes twenty minutes to get there, and another hour and a half in the emergency room, waiting for Steve's turn. Damn triage. Steve spends the first half hour insisting he can wait on his own, to the insulted snorts of all three friends, before he finally gives up and accepts their company.

 

Steve sits with his head resting on the back of the seat headrest and narrates his information to Bucky, who writes everything on his admission forms. They begin to get to know each other a little better when Steve's address is close to Bucky's old neighbourhood. They talk about sports, their jobs, common interests, movies, and in no time at all, Steve's name is being called into one of the examination rooms by the nurse.

 

"I'll come in with you," Bucky offers.

 

"You really don't have to," Steve says, twisting Bucky's bloody shirt between his hands. He now has two tissues packed into his nostrils. They move when he breathes. "You've done enough."

 

"And that's exactly _why_ I should go in with you," Bucky counters smoothly, linking his arm in Steve's. "To make sure you're not selling me out to the cops."

 

Steve shrugs helplessly, and lets Bucky escort him Exam Room Three.

 

Perching on the edge of the bed, Steve sits quietly as the nurse takes a preliminary look at him. "It doesn't look broken, but to be on the safe side, I'm going to page the attending to come and have a look at you." She smiles apologetically. "That could be a while."

 

Steve looks at Bucky, who is yawning wildly. The alcohol's mostly worn off, and now he's just feeling tired.

 

"Go home," Steve says firmly, sitting on the bed with his back against the wall.

 

"What?" Bucky exclaims. "You're not treated yet."

 

"We don't know how long the doctor's going to be and you're clearly tired. I'm honestly going to be okay."

 

"But--"

 

"Nurse," Steve says. "My friend's tired. He's going to go home."

 

"But--" Bucky says again desperately. He doesn't like to not get his own way, and he's starting to find Steve a little intriguing. Also there's that ever-present guilt at messing up his face.

 

"You should go home and get cleaned up," the nurse says, gesturing to Bucky's white tee. It has a few bloody fingerprints on the front. She gets behind him and starts steering him out of the room.

 

"I'm really fine, though--" Bucky protests again, looking over his shoulder to see Steve giving him a little wave.

 

"You'll be even better after you go home. Call your friend later, cutie."

 

And with that, Bucky is summarily ejected from Exam Room Three.

 

Bucky stays outside of the closed door for a moment, before heaving a sigh. He wanders slightly aimlessly back out to the emergency room where Clint's reading a magazine and Natasha has her head pillowed on his thigh, asleep.

 

"Where's Rogers, Buck?" Clint asks, and begins snickering at his own joke.

 

"Very funny," Bucky replies acerbically. "He kicked me out." He rubs his left arm sadly. "Said I need to go home and sleep."

 

"You do. You look like the walking dead," Natasha says, opening her eyes slowly, stretching like a cat.

 

"Daryl?" Bucky asks hopefully.

 

"Season Five Rick," Clint responds, to Bucky's disappointment, and quite a rude finger.

 

His friends get up and walk him out. Since Bucky's car is still at the party, and they're all exhausted, they drive back to Clint and Natasha's place. It's three a.m. when they get in, and Bucky crashes on their pull-out out sofa.

 

Bucky sleeps through until after ten. First thing he does after he gets up -- apart from brushing the disgusting yellow coating off his tongue -- is call the emergency room, asking about Steve Rogers.

 

Steve wasn't admitted, and got discharged early in the morning.

 

Bucky hangs up, realising he didn't even get the guy's number.

 

***

 

It's Saturday, and nobody has to work. Clint loans Bucky a t-shirt to wear that doesn't have anyone else's DNA smudged across it, and he and Natasha decide to take Bucky to a late breakfast, but not before they drive him back to pick up his car.

 

It takes nearly half an hour to get back to the street the party was on. Bottles and cups litter the front lawn, and there are several suspicious-looking patches on the grass that are probably vomit.

 

Bucky sidesteps them and makes his way to his parked car, intent on following Clint's crappy gas-guzzler to their favourite all-day breakfast diner. He's walking along the path with his head down when he nearly runs headlong into a certain tall, blond built like a brick shit-house.

 

"Hey," Steve says.

 

"Hey!" Bucky replies back, surprised. "You look like shit," he blurts out.

 

"You're not wrong," Steve replies. His nose is purple and red and swollen, with a white plaster across the bridge, and both eye sockets are black and blue.

 

But his eyes aren't angry anymore -- they're so fucking _blue --_ and his teeth are really white and perfect and smiling hugely, and of course, he looks, well, like _that._

 

Bucky shakes himself out of his completely ridiculous observations and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "How's the nose?"

 

"Hurts. But it's not broken, thankfully." Steve voice is a little nasal, sounding like he's got a mild head cold.

 

"Good, good. The lack of tissues stuffed up your nostrils is an aesthetic improvement." Bucky scuffs the toe of one boot against the ground. "How'd you get here?"

 

"I called my friend Sam to come pick me up from the ER, and spent the night at his place. He just dropped me off."

 

"I'm kind of mad at you," Bucky says, and Steve's eyes widen. Bucky knows he's probably giving the poor guy whiplash from the way he's changing subjects all the time, but he can't help it. His brain has about fourteen different tracks and at any one time he can be riding three or four.

 

" _You're_ mad at _me?_ " Steve asks, bewildered. Clearly he thinks that if anyone should be the angry party, it's him.

 

"Yeah," Bucky tells him, pulling a hand out of his pocket and poking Steve in the chest. "You shouldn't have kicked me outta your treatment room. I was worried about you. And--"

 

He stops all of a sudden, finger hovering over one _incredibly firm_ pectoral muscle.

 

Don't say you called up about him. Don't say you couldn't remember his cell number from filling out the paperwork, but could remember his address and considered dropping by to see if he was okay.

 

"And?" Steve prompts, curiously.

 

Say something. _Anything_. Just not that stalkery stuff.

 

"And you still have my shirt," he finishes, a little desperately.

 

At this, Steve gives a little wince. "Well, about that. It was so soaked through with all of my blood, the nurse... ah... threw it away."

 

"Oh. Okay," Bucky says. "That's okay, really." He pauses. "It's not like it was one of my favourites, or anything." Bucky doesn't know why he adds this because it actually is- er, _was_. It was the one Natasha always told him really brought out his eyes. And regardless of his words, Bucky can't help the disappointed downturn of his mouth as he runs a hand through his hair.

 

"I'm sorry," Steve apologises sincerely, and Bucky dismisses him with a wave.

 

"It's fine. So..." Think of something. _Anything_ , for God's sake _._ Anything that's not lame, James Buchanan 'Fuck, I Just Learnt Rudimentary Conversation Skills' Barnes. "Which one's your car?"

 

Steve quirks his lips up a little. "Well, actually," he says, pointing to the sweet-looking Cruiser bike parked right in front of Bucky's car.

 

Bucky whistles. "Now _that_ is _fine,_ " he says, impressed.

 

A horn sounds, making both Steve and Bucky jump. Clint and Natasha are double-parked on the street. Clint leans towards the window, over Natasha's lap and says "For fuck's sake, Barnes. Just... invite him to breakfast with us, or leave him the hell alone, we're starving."

 

Bucky frowns, but internally he is punching the air. Clint, you beautiful man, you will be getting a massive kiss on the lips later. Face schooled to be as casual as possible, Bucky turns back to Steve.

 

"Want to come? I figure maybe I owe you a cup of coffee for making it look like your face went through a meat grinder."

 

Steve points to his head. "I'd say this is worth at least that _plus_ a stack of pancakes and maybe a few hash browns," he counters, arms folding across his huge chest.

 

The corner of Bucky's mouth twitches. "You drive a hard bargain, Rogers," he says with a big sigh, as though he's extremely hard-done-by.

 

"Then maybe I could take you out and get you a new shirt. You know. If you're not doing anything else today, James?" he frames the question carefully.

 

Bucky starts at his name. Of course, he's with just about the only two people who call him 'James' and 'Barnes' instead of what he prefers to go by, mostly to annoy the shit out of him.

 

"Actually, it's Bucky," Bucky says. That mystified look is back to crease Steve's brow. "As in James Buchanan 'I Usually Go By Bucky' Barnes." He holds out his hand for Steve to shake, it being a slightly better introduction than the first one.

 

Steve doesn't hesitate, and takes his hand, shaking it. "Bucky," he says slowly, as though he's sampling the name. "I like it."

 

"I like it, too," Bucky grins. Somehow their hands are still joined.

 

The horn sounds again, startling Bucky enough to drop Steve's hand. This time, it's Natasha sitting on it. "And I like waffles, you ass. Hurry up!"

 

"O _kay_ ," he spits back at Natasha, annoyed to see her poke the tip of her tongue out from between her teeth in what he construes as lewd.

 

He turns back to Steve, brightly. "Want to ride with me? The diner's not far, I can bring you back here after."

 

Steve smiles and Bucky's starting to really think he might actually be a bit of a looker under all that bruising. "Sure. Maybe... you can tell me what story was so great that it required me to get double-punched in the face telling it?"

 

Bucky unlocks his car and gets in the driver's side. Steve slides in next to him. "The seagull story? It's pretty fucking rad, I'm not going to lie."

 

"Clearly," Steve agrees solemnly. "Only maybe this time... you can keep your hands to yourself."

 

Bucky grins, chewing on his bottom lip as he kicks over the engine. "I'll try, but--" He gives Steve a quick look from head to foot and back again, before gripping the steering wheel tightly and staring out of the windshield, "--I can't promise anything."


End file.
